by Lou Allin
“Belle, are you coming?” Mutt looked back in amusement over his shoulder.
She hadn’t been in the building for over ten years, when she’d last taught a realty class, and the latest addition led off to NORCAT, the Northern Centre of Advanced Technology, with glassed bridges to the Trades area. Mutt directed her left to another set of endless corridors, past the Native Friendship Centre and an art area with paintings. A depiction of granite shores in the style of Bruno Cavallo attracted her. Rocks were this town’s middle name, including a sportswear store and even the college’s new student centre, On the Rocks. The barebones honesty of the Cambrian shield made the farmlands of the South seem sleepy and unchallenging.
“E-dome this way,” a sign read as Mutt pointed to the next turn. “Paul’s meeting us there. This place is state-of-the-art. All sorts of high-tech electronics for long-distance education, too.”
“U of T never looked like this,” Belle admitted. The postmodern techno effect was far from the halls of ivy and its hundred and fifty years of traditional lecture rooms.
The E-dome was a huge circular room with tiers of desks and accommodations for projectors and audio-visual presentations. Automated screens and a theatrical lighting system hung from the ceiling. The unpainted cement floor facilitated machine movement and portable seating but seemed cold and unwelcoming to Belle. What would it be like at minus thirty-five outside? With all that glass, the heating bills must almost bankrupt the college. Two men were talking, one a technician, who was making notes on a clipboard.
Joining them, Paul Straten reminded her of Gary sans beard, fit and at home in the field. Short and muscular like Mutt, he wore chinos, a denim shirt and hiking boots. His chocolate-brown eyes sparkled as he shook hands, and Mutt made the introductions.
“I’m so sorry about what happened to Gary. I liked the man, and I looked forward to working with him.”
Mutt blinked and nodded while Belle stared out the window, to where a huge teepee had been erected on the student green. This was a Sioux concept, not Ojibwa, a tribe which made birch shelters over branch structures. More romantic, though.
Paul cleared his throat. “Anyway, I’ve got our little friend all ready. Just out of the freezer.”
They followed him down another hall, around a corner past plaque-dedicated electrical and instrumentation labs, then through a door to a lower level. There he took a key from a ring and unlocked the door of a large room with stainless steel cabinets on one wall. One end led to a loading dock area with roll-down doors. Mechanical hoists moved overhead from one oversized table to another. This was no ordinary autopsy room. Fans shifted the cool air, spreading a slight smell of antiseptic. Belle shivered, although she knew no human bodies rested in the drawers. This queasiness didn’t run in the family. Her father’s first job at fifteen had been attendant at the Toronto Morgue.
On a steel table with drip grooves lay a draped form no larger than a dog. Paul pulled back the sheet. Nearly all legs, the animal was pure white, with a large cut up the middle. Belle found herself transfixed. Paul directed their attention to the eyelid, pinned back in a bizarre effect which made her cringe. The eyeball was pink. “A true albino. Don’t see many of these in any species. They usually die long before puberty.”
“Why is that?” Belle asked, softening toward the small form, scarcely weaned from mother’s milk to taste briefly of spring’s soft grass. One snowy March, she’d found signs of moose birth on her snowshoe trails, a welter of clotted blood and tissue with tiny calf hooves following the cow’s, rushed into a cold, cruel and shrinking habitat.
“Easier for predators to spot. Wolves. Coyotes. Hunters. And genetically they’re prone to disease or burdened with a weak immune system. Parasites are also a problem.”
As a dog owner aware of the usual suspects banished with an expensive monthly pill, Belle asked, “What kind of parasites? I know ticks have become more prevalent with our warmer summers.”
He gave a light laugh. “Where do you want to start? Wild ruminants are subject to helminths, which are worms, protozoa, arthropods such as flies, and also ticks and mites. Farmers dread the crossover diseases like brucellosis because they’re afraid their herds will be infected.”
Silence filled the room for a moment, almost like a church. “What were the results of the autopsy, or whatever you call it?” Mutt asked quietly.
“It wasn’t shot or injured. That was obvious on first examination. Heart and lungs, all the organs looked in good shape. No evident defects. It is underweight for its apparent age, according to our standard figures.” He traced along the rib cage much as a vet would check a dog or cat. “So much guesswork, with many factors. Perhaps something happened to the mother.”
Belle asked, “I don’t know what I was expecting. Is there nothing definitive?”
“Don’t give up yet. This gets top priority. Tissue samples have gone off to Waterloo, where they have a comprehensive lab. We don’t handle complex toxicology here. My program is aimed at Sustainable Outdoor Resource Management. The students get hired by the MNR or work as guides.”
Touching the shoulder of the small beast, thinking of how Gary must have felt at the sad discovery, Belle asked, “When do you expect the results?”
“Not for several weeks. It’s no rush job like a murder investigation.” He pulled a small notebook from his pocket. “I have your number, Mutt. I’ll give you a call.”
Belle passed him a card. “Here’s mine if you can’t reach him.” Maybe Paul had a family and was in the market for a house.
“Poor little creature,” she said, as they left the college. “Alive enough to have strength to die.”
Mutt stopped in his tracks and looked at her. “Great line. May I steal it for my next book?”
“It’s already stolen. Thomas Hardy.” She didn’t mention that it came from “Neutral Tones,” a poignant poem about two lovers standing near a pond in bleak midwinter, realizing that their relationship was over. The sine qua non of pathetic fallacies. She thought of it especially in bleak December, where the quicksilver sun fell below the barren hills at scarcely four o’clock.
As they parted at the entrance, Mutt turned to her. “Paul’s given me some hope. I’m going to start transcribing the earlier field notebooks. Maybe they’ll contain a clue to what Gary was working on those last days. It’s really odd that nothing turned up at his office. He was never late with deadlines.”
“Could be the elk autopsy report was holding him up.” She watched a muscle work in his jaw and added, “Is there any other way I can help?”
He gave a sigh. “I can handle the data. I’m just not familiar with the landscape where he was working. And I think I need to be.”
Belle brightened, searching for a way to make a contribution. “I have plenty of topographic maps.”
“There was a roll of them in a fishing-rod case in the truck. The Bump Lake one was on top, marked up at first glance. But if I have any questions, I’ll bring them over.” He gave a grim laugh. “Meanwhile, if you don’t see me, I’ll be under arrest.”
A few hours later, Belle’s cell phone rang as she headed home down Radar Road. Driving and talking was not her habit. The act reduced reflex times, and she needed all she had. Pulling in to the North Star Confectionery, she answered.
“You the one who put up those pictures?”
Someone had taken the bait about the dumpsite. An informer or the felon himself? Despite the warm breeze sending lilac perfume her way from a neighbouring yard, she felt a sinister chill as her pulse quickened. “Yes. Do you have any information?”
“For a price.”
Forget Good Samaritans. Show me the money. “What about service to your community? Do you like looking at garbage in your own backyard?”
“Hell, being a nice guy don’t pay the rent.” A rude bray hit her ear. She wouldn’t be surprised if he were blowing snot over the speaker. She could nearly smell him. The Great Unwashed. “I got no time for this shit. Meet me at the
airport in thirty minutes. First luggage carousel. Got sixty bucks?”
She nearly laughed. A couple of cases of beer. Information came cheap. The rendezvous sounded safe enough. A woman rushing into a meeting with an unknown man in a dark alley was third-rate mystery material.
Shoving in a Diamond Rio tape, she geared up for the meeting by singing along. “Gonna get a doooooooooog.” Soon she was parked at the meters in front of the airport, spotting a clunky old beater chugging down the road. She slipped into the new, improved terminal. The waiting room was between arrivals, empty except for a nun in full white regalia reading The Life of Pi and sipping a soft drink. She looked up at Belle and beamed, receiving a thumbs up.
Dressed in baggy workpants and a ripped leather jacket, a young man slouched in and motioned with his head. Towering over her, an asset wasted on such a slob, he held out his hand, the shovel-nosed fingers yellow with nicotine. His face was ferret-sharp, and she could smell stale sweat. “Seventy-five.” He looked around as a beer-bellied officer with a grey crew cut finished a coffee in his stroll and headed for the washroom. “Hurry up. Security’s gonna think this is a drug deal going down.”
“It’s sixty.” She waved the high-tech metallic bills with the aging queen’s portrait, retooled for perhaps the final time. “The name first.”
He glanced around, greasy threads of dirty blond hair tickling his eyes, the sclera yellowed and unhealthy. His breath made her think twice about continuing to smoke even five cigarettes a day. “Remember, you never heard this from nobody. Joey Bartko’s your man. Lives on Pine Street in Skead.” Then, snatching his prey and walking quickly outside, he was gone like a bouncing thief in the night, muffler sparking under the car, one window skinned with plastic. Belle breathed a sigh of relief and went to the ladies’ to wash her hands. She felt dirty just thinking about him.
At home shortly after, she called the CrimeStoppers’ toll-free line again and gave the new information, citing the case number they’d assigned. “We couldn’t do anything with the debit card slip. Only the last numbers are recorded for security reasons. Now that we have a name, we’re in business. Sometimes there’s a reward for information when stolen property is recovered,” said the clerk, a woman with a hoarse voice who kept clearing her throat. “Sorry. Another smog alert.”
“Rewards don’t concern me. This idiot needs to be stopped before the bush turns into one giant landfill.” She paused, biting her lip. “This is all anonymous, right?”
“Certainly. That’s part of our mandate. The police will visit the scene then go to his home tomorrow. We have your pictures of the trash site. That carpet is distinctive, and if he has a JVC television to match the box, all the better.”
“What’s the fine for dumping?” Life in prison, as far as she was concerned.
“For household waste, up to five thousand. Jail time for a second offence.”
As a soft rain pattered on her roof and a rising wind from the north tinkled the wind chimes outside her patio door, Belle fell asleep quickly, the t’s and i’s dotted for the polluter. If only coordinating Gary’s research were so easy. Mutt was working overtime. She didn’t envy him his task of tying up loose ends, but Paul Straten’s information had provided a few threads. Like Mutt, she dreamed of the white elk calf. Was there room at Rainbow Bridge for wild souls?
EIGHT
With the blackflies and mosquitoes in temporary abeyance after a helpful rain, Belle grabbed the window of opportunity to take Freya on a short walk to Freedom Hill. The bear bell attached to the dog’s collar jingled a warning to any foraging bruin. For extra security, she sang “O, Canada”, “God Save the Queen” and “The Maple Leaf Forever”, chuckling at how young Morag in The Diviners imagined words in the last song to be not “dauntless hero” but “donkless”.
Along the way, the groundcover arbutus had bloomed, and she picked a delicate white flower to savour its spicy smell. The rose-twisted-stalk was emerging, and a shy nodding trillium could be seen in a shady nook under a massive yellow birch sprouted during the French Revolution. Goldthread, one of the first to emerge, blanketed the cool green moss. Each plant was answering summer’s call in preordained progression. Spring in the North was a blink of the eye, a flick of the calendar page. Not quite the cruellest month, but snowmobiles roamed the lake as late as April, and the giant ice cube six-feet-thick that was the lake left a chill and kept temperatures two weeks behind those in town. Patches of snow nestled in the darkest woods, shielded from the sun by hills, rocks or trees. Yet the tide was gathering in the backcountry. The brook was heavy with freshets as the dog paused to drink. Letting the peace of the forest envelop her, Belle heard the mournful cry of the dove, usually a city phenomenon but moving closer as civilization stretched its tentacles. A familiar drumming, slow, then picking up speed like the stuttery start of a lawnmower, reminded her that grouse were seeking mates.
At the summit, she re-erected her inukshuk on the top of a rocky chimney shape and looked over low hills punctuated with distant hydro lines marching across miles of wilderness. Gary could have walked these trails with her, learned about her secret places and natural altars and cathedrals. They had taken different paths to appreciating the bounties of nature but had arrived together. She’d taught herself more in the two decades up here than she’d ever learned in school. A passion for understanding the natural world grew with each discovery. She stooped to pop a teaberry into her mouth for a burst of flavour. Overwintered, they were tangy and tart, a memory of a gum long discontinued.
Freya sniffed a small taupe bundle on the peaty path. “Leave it,” Belle said sternly and found a stick to flip the stiff, blunt-nosed carcass of a shrew into the brush. Rodents carried parasites, an expensive proposition at the vet’s.
When Belle emerged onto the pavement from the sheltering willow bushes that camouflaged the entrance to her trail, she met Ed DesRosiers on his quad, his dog Rusty ambling alongside. Ed was pulling a small trailer, probably headed for the amazing disappearing hill, a tall esker, to fetch free sand and gravel. Quads she hated with a passion, but she knew his joint problems didn’t allow him to roam the bush with her any more. His cane was once again strapped to the bike. “I thought your hip was better after that operation.”
He grimaced. “Now it’s my knee. Doc says I gotta lose forty big ones.” In sweatpants and a light Sudbury Wolves jacket, Ed wore his poundage like a sack of rice, favouring suspenders over a useless belt.
“I haven’t seen you guys in weeks. How was your cruise?”
“I gained ten pounds. Hélène lost five. ’Course, while she was doing this spinning stuff, I was lifting weights at the buffet table.” He shrugged good-naturedly and patted his belly.
Rusty splayed upside down in the submissive posture until Freya finished her requisite nosing. Belle gave the chocolate-red mutt’s groin a gentle rub. “So what have you been up to?” Ed asked. “See any grouse in there? I was meaning to get a few birds for the wife.”
She filled Ed in on Gary’s drowning. No need to add the details about Mutt and his quest until they knew something substantive, nor to churn the gossip mills with their ancient dating history. She’d been embarrassed enough with Steve’s and Miriam’s reactions.
Ed pulled a battered stogie out of his pocket and gave it a pondering chew. He knew better than to light it, even if his wife wasn’t in sight. “Sorry to hear that. Down around old Burwash, you say?” He scratched his grizzled chin. No shave yet today on the jolly round face. Retirement had its perks, even if he continued his plumbing profession on an ad hoc basis for friends. “Cousin of mine shot himself by accident down there must be about . . . the year our first grandson Todd was born. ’88. Mike got to boozing around the campfire and tripped over a root or something. Left five kids. Damn shame.”
She smeared a blackfly on the back of her ear, turning up a crust of blood. Insects were the true rulers of the world, if only in numbers and resilience. “Tough break for everyone.”
“It
wasn’t pretty. I was with the search team.” He squinted as the sun came out from behind a silver streak of clouds. “Funny thing, though. Never knew him to have more than a beer or two. Didn’t drink hard liquor either, but there was a bottle in his tent.”
She checked her watch. Getting late. “One other thing. I don’t know if you’ve heard through the grapevine that the Lavoies’ house was broken into. Double-check your alarm system when Rusty’s not on guard.”
He gave a pound to the quad. “Man, what is this road coming to? Myron Zippel opened up the camp and found his ice auger gone from the boathouse. Four hundred bucks. Someone had a party in the living room and left a pile on the carpet.”
“A pile? Oh, I get you.” Belle winced. Steve had told her about that atavistic side of vandalism. The ultimate humiliation from cave dwellers to dot.commers.
“When does he think it happened?” Zippel wintered in Florida, like many local snowbirds.
“Maybe a week ago. ’Cause he was out here on Victoria Day, and all was A-OK.”
So the robbery might not have been an isolated incident. Belle had a mental picture of the property. “His place is hidden from traffic by those thick cedars. Easy pickings by car or boat.” At the beginning of Edgewater Road was a Neighbourhood Watch sign with its alert eye. On six miles of winding hills with acres carved out of the bush, the warning was a token gesture.
